Gemotions

The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. Sarah fidgeted, smoothing the crease in her skirt for the tenth time. It had been years since she'd thought about Mark, her childhood nemesis. Now, his name was on the office door. "Mark Peterson, PhD, Therapist." A wave of nausea churned in her stomach.

She remembered the chipped tooth, the scraped knees, the endless taunts. Suddenly, the plush armchair felt like a throne, and she, a prisoner awaiting execution. Her palms were sweating as the door opened, and Mark stood there, older, calmer, but undeniably *him*.

"Sarah? Come in," he said, his voice softer than she remembered. He gestured towards a comfortable couch, and she, hesitant, complied. She felt a knot forming in her gut.